Chapter One: Pilot
The snickering starts the moment I sit down. It’s a low, wet sound—the kind of hushed laughter that pestered me yesterday and will probably be there to greet me tomorrow. I can’t make them stop. They’re bigger, louder, and draped in the invisible armor of the "popular crowd." They roam these halls with a casual authority, while people like me just count the seconds until the final bell.
Any attempt to fit in is a death wish. At the end of the day, I’ll never be part of their world—this ridiculous high school life built on "plastic" reputations and filtered social guidelines. If I set myself on fire just to give them a laugh, they’d only complain about the smoke. There’s no point in taking their "tests" because they’ve already made up their minds about me.
I weigh 120 pounds. I’m skinny, scrawny, and—for a guy—completely unappealing. Not only that, but I’m invisible. Almost hollow.
I let out a long, shaky breath. My attempt to ignore them and focus on the lecture vanishes the second a three-ring binder slams into the back of my head. If my fury had a voice, it would be a roar of scorching fire, turning their smug faces to ash.
Behind me, the jocks erupt into hysterical, muffled braying. The binder sits on the floor next to my desk, a heavy plastic weapon. I reach down, grab it, and shove it deep into my backpack. A small, petty act of war.
I stare at the chalkboard, pretending to take notes, but I can feel one of them slithering closer. I can smell his expensive cologne and his cheap intent.
"Hey, faggot," he hisses. He’s leaning so close I can feel his breath on my neck. "Give me my fucke n binder before I cut you open."
I don't move. I don't blink. I just let a sly, cold smile touch my lips.
"Is something going on here?"
Mr. Blake stops mid-sentence and starts marching toward us. I nod, but the jocks are already shifting gears, putting on their "good kid" masks. They want me to look like the troublemaker—the anorexic, twitchy kid who can't play nice.
"Yeah, Mr. Blake," the jock says, his voice suddenly thick with fake innocence. "He stole my binder. We were just joking around, but he won’t give it back."
Mr. Blake turns to me, his brow furrowed. "Is this true?"
"Yes," I say, my voice flat and dead. "But only after he used my head as a target."
"Alright, Mr. Johnson—detention," Blake snaps, pointing at the jock. Then he turns his glare back to me. "As for you, Mr. Bell, to the principal’s office. Now!"
"What the fuck!" I blurt out. The unfairness of it hits me like a physical punch.
The rest of the class starts to laugh. Maybe they’re laughing at the verdict, or maybe they’re just laughing at how easily Mr. Blake fell for the act.
"Do you want to join him in detention?" Mr. Blake threatens, stepping into my personal space. "Either you escort yourself to the office, or I'll call security to do it for you."
The jock rises from the desk behind me and gathers his things. As he passes my desk to head for the door, he reaches out and violently sweeps my binders and folders onto the floor. Paper scatters everywhere like confetti at a funeral.
A shiver runs down my spine. As he walks away, he catches my eye and slowly draws his thumb across his throat.
I hate high school more than anything in this world.
